


Even When it Hurts

by NotLaura



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-S5 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotLaura/pseuds/NotLaura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the first brush of daylight creeps through the curtain and she slides her pants over her hips, it is not lost on Carol that for every time she imagined this ending with someone sneaking out of bed... She'd never dreamed it would be her. (Post 5x16)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even When it Hurts

She's dreamed of it before. Dozens of times, dozens of scenarios... She's imagined it tender and slow, full of gasps and whispers and languid kisses. Nights that last forever, somewhere outside of the harshness of this world. The feel of his skin under her hands and the press of his lips to her throat and a connection so close she doesn't know that it could ever sever. Sometimes it’s wilder, passionate and a little bit rough (but oh so gentle, under it all). Groans and teeth and the sound of skin on skin.

Even in her daydreams, she imagined waking up alone. Baggage, shame, confusion... She'd dreamed them away, misunderstandings on the road to togetherness, obstacles they'd have to overcome. Yet as the first brush of daylight creeps through the curtain and she slides her pants over her hips, it is not lost on Carol that for every time she imagined this ending with someone sneaking out of bed...

She'd never dreamed it would be her.

Her fingers are brushing the doorknob when she hears him stir and Carol freezes, holding her breath for long seconds before chancing movement and looking towards the bed. Daryl is still sprawled on his stomach, one arm buried under the pillow while the other rests in the spot she occupied. His back is bare, the sheet settled around his hips and all of his scars on display and her throat hurts to think about that. His head is turned away from her, but Carol knows she won’t get the image of his sleeping face out of her memories any time soon.

She isn’t sure she wants to, not really.

Carol remains still a little longer, but he shows no signs of moving. It’s good, she knows, he had been exhausted when he’d returned and the homecoming he and Aaron had come upon had been far from relaxing. Two men were dead, two women widowed and a ghost from Georgia watched it all go down.

Amidst all the chaos and clean up, there had been no time for reunions and Daryl had caught her eyes across the crowd. There had been something there, a directness to his stare that Carol wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before and as the sounds of Deanna’s horrified weeping filled her ears, Carol had looked away and started taking care of things.

That’s what she does, after all.

Hours later, with bodies taken care of and injuries treated and families torn apart, she’d found herself climbing the stairs inside the house and opening the door to the room she wasn’t yet ready to think of as hers.

He had been there, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the floor and it was just unexpected enough to jostle the armor she’d been building around herself. She’d managed to keep herself hard, all brusque words and efficient managing of people and organizing the chaos. She’d ignored Jessie’s sobs and forced thoughts of her poor sons out of her head. She didn’t look at Pete’s body, didn’t allow herself to think about the twist in her gut that said she could have prevented the scene. She’d bottled it up and stuffed it deep inside of herself and helped clear the homes, helped organize watch, helped get things secure.

Yet in the deep hours of night, when she’d been prepared to hide in the safety of this bedroom, she’d found him waiting for her and the look of exhausted longing on his face undid it all. Carol’s defenses had cracked and he’d darted inside with the barest brush of his hand against her arm. She stepped forward, standing in front of him and Daryl’s head had fallen against her stomach as though this was something they’d done a million times before. His hand tightened against hers and the other wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer between his knees and increasing the pressure of his forehead against her ribs.

They’d stood there silently, nothing but the sound of their breaths as Carol trembled under the weight of meaning behind this desperate, one-armed embrace. He murmured something, but she couldn’t make it out and when he finally raised his head, fear of what those words might be had propelled her forward. The angle was strange and her back protested instantly but she bent over and pressed her mouth to his. The kiss was sloppy, more desperate than she’d known she was capable of, but when Daryl’s mouth opened under hers and his hands found her hips, all she knew was that the floodgates of feeling were open and if she talked to him right now it would all come out.

So Carol didn’t talk. She’d pushed at him until he lowered his back onto the bed and climbed over him without giving him a chance to think.

The sex itself had fallen short of her daydreams but still managed to be better than it probably should have been. They were exhausted and sore and her heart was clenched in tatters somewhere inside her chest but somewhere between Carol tossing her own shirt across the room and Daryl’s groan of approval when she worked his belt open, she told herself that it was okay to feel this. He hadn’t lasted long but the look on his face as he’d come undone beneath her was worth the loss of the orgasm that stayed somewhere beyond her reach.

He’d held her afterwards, drawing her to his chest and settling the sheets around them and pressing his lips to her bare shoulder before falling so quickly into slumber that Carol’s heartbeat had still been racing.

Doubt and terror and the cruel grip of reality had crept in as she laid there. This wasn’t her, this wasn’t them, this had been lost to them back in Georgia, burned away with her choices and buried with her girls. She couldn’t let him in, couldn’t let him see her burdens because she knew he’d help her carry them. The weight was too much for her, but she didn’t deserve his help and panic clawed at her bones because the warmth of him and the weight of his hand against her skin were making it impossible to put things back in their boxes.

So she’d slipped away, slinking out of her room and leaving the man she’d loved back when her heart was whole.

Outside, Alexandria is quiet in ways that betray the tragedy of the night before and Carol leans against the porch railing, watching the sun rise from behind the houses. There’s guilt in her stomach, but she struggles to remember a time when that wasn’t true. Guilt for her girls, guilt for Daryl, guilt for Tyreese, guilt for herself... Guilt because it’s the only thing that’s safe to feel.

She isn’t sure how long she stands there, but the sun has risen when she feels someone approaching. Not from the house, no one inside is stirring yet and when she looks away from the sky there’s a part of her that isn’t surprised to see the eyes of Jessie’s little boy looking up at her.

He looks tired and angry, but sad in a way no child should have to feel and Carol’s arm moves of its own volition, offering him comfort she didn’t think she had left to give. Sam ducks under her arm, small fingers clinging to the fabric of her shirt as he looks out across the street as she had been.

“What were you looking at?”

“The sunrise,” she offers, her voice hoarse but gentler than she’d managed with him before this.

Sam only nods, resting his chin on the porch railing and looking up at the clouds like they hold some sort of answer.

“It’s okay to feel sad,” she finds herself saying, though the comfort tastes strange in her mouth. “He was still your dad, no one thinks you aren’t allowed to cry.”

“Ron does,” Sam’s grip on her shirt tightens. “He said I should be happy, that you don’t cry when bad people are killed.”

Somewhere, in the back of Carol’s mind she hears a voice she knows to the depths of her soul. _I won’t miss him_ , her baby promises, though the tears running down her face say otherwise. The RV is cramped and too hot and there’s yelling outside and... She blinks back the memory, swallowing away the tang of the past and squeezing Sam’s shoulder.

“You cry when you lose someone unexpectedly” she tells him softly. “No matter how you felt about them.”

“It doesn’t make me a baby?”

“No, Sam,” Her voice cracks a little but she pushes past it, knowing that despite her best efforts, this child needs her. “It makes you human. It makes you alive. It makes you something other than a monster. Even when it hurts.”

He doesn’t say anything then, just stays at her side for a while, until the sounds of people rousing in the house send him running back home and Carol feels the tracks of tears sliding down her face. What is this world, that a child feels shame for mourning their parent? The monsters aren’t outside the walls, not really. They just make the ones inside seem less frightening, even though the wounds inflicted are a lot worse than the quickness of death.

She thinks of Mika, then, and how that sweet girl would have loved it here. How the monsters in her life weren’t as simple as corpses and for the first time since the grove, Carol starts to feel like maybe she doesn’t need to be hard to be strong.

The door creaks, and she braces herself to turn and see accusation in Daryl’s eyes but it’s only Michonne, looking grim and weary and excusing herself to relieve Sasha on watch. Carol exhales as she watches her go, but there’s no conscious decision that has her duck inside, darting up the stairs to her bedroom and slipping in without a sound.

Daryl is still asleep, exactly as she left him and while exhaustion threatens to overtake her, Carol strips her clothes off once more and crawls under the covers beside him. Even as tired as he is, he doesn’t sleep through the disturbance and the sleepy look on his face as he blinks and shifts her closer tugs at her lips and stitches parts of her heart back together.

“Mornin’” His voice is rough and he presses his face to her neck and settles closer still.

“Good morning,” Carol presses her lips to his hair, and for the first time in months she means it. Her girls are still dead and her burdens are still heavy, but maybe she’s strong enough to let him help her carry them, maybe that doesn’t make her weak.

“Did this all wrong,” he mutters against her skin, even as his thumb traces circles on her hip. “Was out there, and it was bad. Know I haven’t been... around much. But, meant to tell you...” He huffs a sigh and his breath tickles her throat.

“I love you too,” Carol interrupts him, and he lifts his head to look at her, indignant despite pillow crease on his cheek and the messy bedhead of his hair and she can’t control the grin that crosses her face. It feels foreign, like something she’d lost being returned to her and Daryl just shakes his head, kissing her sweetly and drawing a giggle from her lips. “That is what you meant to tell me, right?”

He huffs again, and Carol could swear she hears him mutter something about her impatience but it’s swallowed with another kiss.

Later, she’ll tell him everything. She’ll tell him how things were worse and how alone she felt and why the thought of letting him anywhere near her heart had been so scary. How she doesn’t know if she has it in her to help Sam or Jessie or anyone. How hiding exhausts her but she isn’t ready to be herself yet, not for anyone else but him.

Because he’s Daryl, because he knows her down to her bones, he’ll understand and he’ll help her heal.

As exhaustion slips away and daydreams full of teasing and laughter and promises come to fruition, Carol allows herself to entertain the idea of a future beyond the next sunrise.

Dreaming doesn’t make her weak.


End file.
